


didn't have a choice

by vlieger



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:47:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger





	didn't have a choice

The first time Rafael Nadal meets Roger Federer, despite all the things Rafa had wanted to say, all the conversations he’d imagined, it goes like this: Rafa’s wide-eyed, slightly breathless, “Hi.”

And Roger’s pause, taken-aback, his slow smile, his extended hand. 

 

Rafa plays well against Roger. Even if he doesn’t win, he always plays well. It helps some on the occasions he comes off second best. “Is good match, no, but I think I not serving as good as you, maybe not hitting this.” He waves his arm in a sweeping forehand arc. “As much as usual, but is good match. I needing some.” He gestures to his mouth and glances over at Roger, who looks puzzled but amused, mouth hitched in a not-quite comprehending smile. “Oh,” says Rafa, biting his lip, “Sorry, I talking too fast. Is English, not so good. I wanting some food, si, maybe you coming?” He blushes, but his skin is damp, already flushed from the match, and he doesn’t think Roger notices the difference. 

“Oh,” says Roger. He pushes the hair from his forehead and looks around. “I suppose-- okay, sure.”

Rafa beams his way into the showers. 

 

Sometimes Rafa can’t quite comprehend that Roger, Roger Federer, seems to enjoy spending time with him for no other reason than just because. 

“I was thinking maybe we could have lunch,” says Roger through the phone. “It’s been a while since we’ve spoken; I’m sure you have a lot to tell me.” Rafa can hear him smiling. 

“You too, si?” he says, fiddling with the volume on the TV, watching the lines gather and then fade, the sound following. “Tomorrow,” he confirms. 

“Yeah,” says Roger. “What-- ” He pauses, voice faint in the deafening roar of the TV, and Rafa jabs hastily at the mute button. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

Roger laughs. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Rafa.”

 

“Ugh.” Roger slumps back in his chair and aligns his knife and fork decidedly across his plate. “Remind me never to try and keep up with your eating.”

Rafa laughs, twirling his fork between his fingers. “Is time for dessert, no?”

Roger looks horrified. “No more,” he groans. “I can’t.”

Rafa clicks his tongue and leans forward across the table. “Is no good.” He smiles, tapping the back of Roger’s hand with the end of his fork. “Now I know to taking you eating before matches, then I win no problem.”

Roger huffs a laugh, snatching the dessert menu. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, scanning it and then setting it back on the table. “We’ll come back tomorrow just for dessert. Then you can probably fit in two or three.”

Rafa tilts his head. “Fine,” he says finally, drawing it out. “I starve today, waiting for tomorrow.”

“You’re ridiculous,” says Roger, shaking his head. 

Rafa leans back and watches him, liking the way he says it, easy and affectionate, curled around a smile. 

 

They have lunch in Paris the day before the tournament starts, Rafa going for his third title, Roger pitted against him. It’s not really much of a lunch, neither of them eating a lot, sipping at glasses of cold water and talking, but Rafa enjoys it anyway, enjoys the picture laid out before him: the leaves framing the little open cafe against the untouched burnt orange courts, and Roger, bright and relaxed like Rafa won’t see again for a while. 

 

“Maybe,” says Rafa, quiet and uncertain, after that third Roland Garros, “Maybe we having lunch one more time before England.”

“Oh,” says Roger. His voice is tight, cut with disappointment. Rafa can see him trying to direct it elsewhere. He knows Roger, knows he blames no one but himself, but it still stings. “I’m not-- I don’t think I’ll have time, I mean.” He trails off and shrugs.

“Is okay,” says Rafa, turning away, clutching at his bag where it’s slung over his shoulder. “Maybe we have time in England.” He doesn’t look at Roger again before he leaves. 

 

Roger beats him again in England, but he remembers it the next time, and the next time it’s different. He doesn’t let himself think too much about how Roger’s doing, and it’s good, it’s better than good, this new feeling, this new credibility, his hand on Roger’s shoulder and their heads bent together, trophies the reverse of last year. 

 

In Beijing he watches the opening ceremony when it’s replayed in his hotel room like he does every four years, lying back-to-front across the bed, chin propped in his palms. It’s dark, and he’s tired, enjoying the soft seep of colours from the screen across his skin. He’s half asleep when it’s Switzerland’s turn, and he blinks his eyes open to see Roger, but it leaves him lying cold and awake for a long time despite the sleep stinging at his eyes, something too much like guilt settled in the pit of his stomach. 

 

Rafa makes sure to catch Roger after he wins the doubles. He can’t stop smiling, and Rafa smiles back and thinks how glad he is that Beijing was good, after all. 

“It’s different,” says Roger, spearing food thoughtfully onto his fork. “I like it.”

Rafa nods, sliding his plate away a little, finished before Roger as usual, and says, “You look good. Happy.” He does; the set of his shoulders loose and fluid, his eyes bright.

Roger smiles some more. “The first half of the year.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t so good. I feel better.”

Rafa’s not surprised when he wins in New York. 

 

He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself in Australia. It’s amazing, that last shot, the lights and the heat and Roger’s damp hand clasped in his at the net, and yet. He hates this, too, hates that it’s Roger, hates that he cares. Hates that he can’t swipe a thumb across Roger’s cheek like he wants to. He frowns down at his fingers and for just a split second, between the adrenaline and the blood pounding in his ears, between the repeated realisations that he’s won, he’s won, and this is Australia and it’s all so new and perfect, the smile feels automatic. For just a split second. 

 

They catch up again in Paris, this time for breakfast, pale morning light creeping through the windows. Roger drums his fingers on the table after they order, smiling soft and absent, leftover from Rafa’s inability to decide between coffee or hot chocolate or orange juice and his subsequent solution of ordering all three. He says, casual, “I feel good this year. Better than Australia. Just so you know.”

Rafa laughs, squirming through the skittering rush of adrenaline at this, breakfast and conversation and jokes, light and teasing, and Roger’s smile, warm and uncomplicated. “You saying this every year, no? Is not scaring anymore.”

Roger shrugs, still smiling about his eyes. “Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Rafa grins down at his three beverages, running a finger around the rim of each and finally pulling the orange juice closer, sucking the straw into his mouth and tilting his head back up to watch Roger, perfectly aware but powerless to stop how ridiculous he looks, wide eyes and stupid smile and some slow, smouldering thing he’s well-rehearsed in ignoring, molten in the tips of his fingers, the base of his spine. 

 

The last time he really sees Roger before the whole knee fiasco is after Roger’s second round match, slipping up alongside him in the locker room, watching him towel at his hair. 

“Hi,” says Roger, smiling and folding the towel carefully into his bag. 

“Congratulations,” says Rafa. “You having time now? I’m hungry.” He tilts his head. 

Roger laughs. “You’re always hungry,” he says. “But, um. I have to go to the press conference, and then Mirka, you know.” He stops, smiling and shrugging apologetically but absently, his eyes already restless over Rafa's shoulder, looking for something, someone else. 

“Oh.” Rafa shakes his head. “No, is okay. Maybe next time, si? Is time, we playing in final.”

He watches Roger leave, biting down on his lip. They don't play in the final and he doesn't watch it on TV, not even for Roger. He just. Can’t.

 

Rafa remembers watching that first Grand Slam of Roger’s, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on the table, maybe a little jealous. He watches the fifteenth in similar fashion, only the feeling is something more pronounced, much more, with the added complexities of awe and burning hope and that buried, burrowing sense of want, _want_.


End file.
